So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. On the contrary, it was impossible to look at him without perceiving that his resolution was unshaken. He thrust the smaller weapon into a scabbard that hung from his belt. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you.
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